Alternate Season 5 Episode 5x03: Bullet
by Colinsand
Summary: After a shooting outside the Wolfram and Hart building the team must track down the assassin. The mission is given urgency by the fact that the life of one of their own hangs in the balance...
1. Overture

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the third episode in my Alternative Angel Season 5 Series. Events in this follow from events in the previous two.

Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review. Reviews (good or bad) are very very much appreciated :)

**OVERTURE**

"Ah Mr Angel, do sit down," the man behind the big desk greeted, motioning to the chair across from him.

"It's just Angel."

"Of course. Would you like anything to drink? Beer? Scotch? AB negative?"

"No. Thanks."

"Straight to business then." The man was Theodore Tramore. He was a thin, lanky man, and was wearing a black bowler hat that was slightly too small for him. "I understand that with the firm under new management there are a few details from our previous contract that you wish to alter before we sign the renewal."

"That's right." Angel nodded. This was what he considered to be a major downside of being the head of Wolfram and Hart: all the business talk, the meetings, the informal chit-chats. Awkward meetings where the stronger position really couldn't be gained simply by breaking a limb. Or two.

"Well our relationship has always been a strong one, and all of us here are very keen for that to continue." The man paused and looked into Angel's eyes, clearly waiting for some positive or negative reaction to this statement. Angel gave a slight nod of the head.

Tramore resumed, "So, what exactly is it that you would like to take a look at?" He picked up the contract papers from his desk and started leafing through them.

"Basically, I'm not entirely comfortable with how you operate your business."

"Really? Anything in particular causing you discomfort?"

"The people you deal with, people you sell guns to."

"I sell guns to you. Guns, explosives, swords, axes… Your firm has been a valued customer for over a hundred years now."

"You sell to people who use your weapons to hurt people."

"Forgive me, I thought that was what you used our weapons for," Tramore drawled.

"We use them to…"

"I know you're all about change, that for some reason the big boys at Wolfram and Hart think you're the man, _the vampire_, for the job, and that you should run things. That's fine, you run Wolfram and Hart, you make your changes. But when it comes to _my_ business _I_ decide how it is run. We sell weapons. It is nothing to do with us what you, or any of our customers, do with them."

Angel said nothing. Tramore was… not _right_, but he had a point. The firm did benefit from the services of Tramore's company.

--------------------------

The big shiny city was decidedly different from her small-town Texas roots. Winifred Burkle had grown to love the city she worked and lived in. Los Angeles. Where heroes and villains and everything in between clashed. As head of Practical Science at Wolfram and Hart she was becoming grateful for her time outside of the lab in the noise and brightness of the city. She smiled and waved to the guy at the security desk on her way out of the main doors. The night was like any other. The warmth of the day still hadn't entirely faded. Even now her mind was at work, equations and ideas swirling round, waiting to be called forth to the front of her consciousness. Right now the most pressing thought was: tacos. Fred had an urgent hunger for tacos.

"Miss Burkle!" Came a shout from behind her. Fred turned and saw a young man in a dark designer suit emerging from the Wolfram and Hart building. "I'm glad I caught you," the young man said as he continued dashing towards her. "I'm Ritchie Evans, from accounting." He was carrying a small stack of papers. "I was just wondering if you could double check this," he handed her some of the papers. "As you can see, the figures you gave us suggest your department is two-hundred and thirty-four percent over budget for this month." Fred nodded slowly as she looked over the papers. "I thought perhaps you had put an extra zero somewhere by mistake. I hoped we could get this sorted out before the weekend." Fred cringed inwardly. She knew full well that the figures were correct. A particularly complex experiment on…

Her train of thought was interrupted by the loud roaring of a motorcycle engine. Fred, and Ritchie-from-accounting, looked up to see a figure in all black leathers and a black helmet racing toward them on a Harley-avidson. The motorcycle came to a stop twenty meters away from them. Ritchie looked alarmed. Fred didn't like the look of this one little bitty bit.

The rider in black leapt off his motorcycle and started purposefully towards them.

"Back into the building," Fred said. They quickly headed back towards the doors, Fred slightly behind Ritchie. The rider in black pulled out a sliver weapon, a gun. It was an odd looking gun that looked like an extra-long barreled revolver.

Fred glanced back and saw the gun as the rider brought it up, taking aim. Fred knew Ritchie was in the line of fire. "He's got a gun, move!" Fred shouted. Ritchie glanced back. His eyes went wide and he froze. Fred acted on instinct. She threw herself at the accountant.

Bang.

A single shot rang out.

A flash of blue flame licked the air from the barrel of the silver gun.

Fred and Ritchie crashed to the ground, Ritchie grunting as he landed, the white papers falling all around them. He looked down.

There was blood on his shirt. Red stains. He knew that couldn't be a good sign.

The Gunman was already sprinting back to his bike. He leapt onto it and roared off into the night.

Ritchie got up to his feet. He was shaking. He looked down at the blood spots on his shirt. No pain. And then he looked down at Fred.

She was face down on the ground. There was blood in her hair. He quickly rolled her over onto her back. Her eyes were open. Staring.

Ritchie turned. He took a step back. And then he ran away as fast as he could.

Fred continued her empty stare.

The bullet had hit the back of her head.

Lying on the ground outside the building, with papers scattered around her, Winifred Burkle stared into nowhere.


	2. Act One

**ACT ONE**

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had been standing in the lobby, chatting to a young man, one of his staff, when the pop of the gunshot brought a sudden dread to the pit of his stomach. Wesley whirled towards the sound, it had come from just outside. He immediately recognized it as gunfire. As he headed outside he drew his own gun. Several security personnel and other employees were making their way to the doors too.

The moment he stepped outside, he saw her and he knew it was her. Wesley stopped moving. Time stopped moving. And suddenly nothing else mattered. He didn't care about any danger that there might be; that the gunman could still be around. All he could see was her. On the ground. Not moving. In his mind's eye he couldn't picture her smile. He found the idea of anyone smiling impossible.

And then he was running towards her, running and trying to figure out a way for it to not be her; for it to be someone else wearing the same clothes, with the same hair and the same…

Wesley dropped to his knees when he saw her expressionless face clearly. Fred stared at him. But she wasn't really staring at him, she wasn't staring at anything. Her empty eyes were unfocused. Blood. There were drops on the ground beside her and a pool was forming on the ground. Her face was perfect, utterly untouched. The bullet had gone in but hadn't come out. Still he wanted it not to be her, for the woman before him to be a double, a clone, a trick, an illusion. But the truth refused to be so easily dismissed. The truth told him that it was her, that Winfred Burkle had just been shot in the head.

From the building came the sound of running footsteps. The medical team had arrived.

--------------------------

"…so when the blond came back she was wearing the exact same outfit as Shelly!" Lorne grinned, ending his tale of fashion calamity. Everyone in the room; the studio executive, his lawyers, his assistant, Lorne, Gunn and another Wolfram and Hart employee, were laughing and smiling. Gunn greatly admired Lorne's natural ability to entertain. What could have been a boring Hollywood contract meeting had become light-hearted and almost kinda fun.

"I haven't laughed so hard in years," the studio executive chuckled. "Alright now, where's that contract, let's get this signed and then we can all go to dinner."

"Right you are Mr Shepard." Lorne pushed the contract across the table to the exec.

"Please, call me Lenny," the executive smiled as his assistant handed him a very expensive looking fountain pen. Lenny Shepard then quickly scrawled his signature and slid the paper back towards Lorne. "There we go, a great pleasure doing business with you again."

Gunn's cell phone trilled. "Excuse me," he said as he stood and took a couple of steps away from the table. He took out his phone and answered it.

Lorne didn't need Gunn to sing to know that the news was bad.

--------------------------

Maybe if he got there quickly there would be something he could do. Angel floored the accelerator. The Wolfram and Hart building's chief of security had called him a couple of minutes ago, and had told him about the shooting. Angel had made his hurried excuses and left the office of Theodore Tramore. Business was nothing now; it didn't matter, not in comparison to what had happened. Angel didn't really know exactly what had happened. All he knew was that there had been a shooting just outside the office and that Fred was…

Angel swerved to avoid traffic as he ran a red light, ignoring completely the melody of horns.

Handsome man, saved me from the monsters.

He floored the accelerator pedal, all too aware that a bullet was something he couldn't save her from.

--------------------------

_4 Years Ago…_

"One day maybe a handsome man will come and save me from the monsters." Fred said dreamily.

"Sure kid," Olannia, a fellow cow, replied, scooping up another shovel full of manure. "Then all us cows will be free to frolic as we please."

Fred touched her collar. If she gave any cause for her masters to be displeased they could use it to deliver a nasty shock to her. "I sometimes dream of a place with bright lights, where cows are the masters. No collars. We laugh and smile, and books… I remember reading for hours and hours."

Olannia didn't like the far away look Fred got in her eyes whenever she talked like this. She continued her work, all too aware of what would happen if she was caught chatting to this strange girl.

"It seems so real, but…I'm here. There was a book and there was a portal and there was whooshing and wind and light. Then I…I was here. I don't belong here. I belong there."

Olannia pitied the girl, her mind was clearly leaving her. Such strange talk of this fantasy place only seemed to make things worse, seemed to upset her.

Fred was frowning, she was remembering, trying to remember, trying to figure out why this had happened to her, what bad she had done to deserve this. She tried to figure out what was reality and what was dream, and if there was any difference between the two and…

Fred cried out as her collar came to life. Sharp tingles of pain flared down her spine and all through her body. She fell to her knees and all of the thoughts of a better life, a life of freedom, went back to wherever they'd come from.

"Back to work, cow," her green-skinned, red-horned Pylean taskmaster commanded, emphasizing his particular disgust on the word _cow._ Fred hated that word too. She immediately picked up the shovel and started working as hard as she could, working extra hard while the taskmaster was watching over her.

_One day_, she thought, _one day I'll wake up_.

--------------------------

_Now_

Ritchie Evans had sprinted away as fast as his legs could carry him, he had kept going until he was certain that he was not being pursued. Out of puff, legs aching, he looked up and down the street again, just to be sure.

He kept seeing it over and over in his head. The gun; that strange looking sliver gun. And the moment. The bang. Blue flame and suddenly she had thrown herself at him, she had saved him. She had sacrificed her life for his. The blood. The empty eyes. He saw her face; both her blank stare and her guilty smile as he had explained to her the budget problem. There had been no mistake. She had been over budget.

God, how could he be thinking about the numbers now? How could that matter now that he had just seen a woman die, now that he had been shot at? The gun had been aimed at him, that motorcycle rider in black leather had really been gunning for him.

He had no idea why. He was just a lowly accountant. He wasn't important; he had never had any involvement in any of the firm's big deals, or underworld projects. Why would someone what him dead? He was scared. He was terrified, he felt like he was being hunted. Ritchie knew that he had to keep running. He couldn't go back. He had heard things about the new management; their no-nonsense, zero tolerance approach had been made crystal clear. Miss Burkle had been part of the central team. Angel would blame him. He knew it.

He had to run. He had to hide. From whoever wanted him dead and from his own employers.

--------------------------

The Gunman stopped a few miles away from the scene. He was disappointed with himself. His failure was frustrating. Now that his mission had become a lot more complicated. He had shot the wrong individual and his target was now gone. He wished he had been able to take a second shot, but the gun had been loaded with only a single bullet. It would take time to get another one, and he also now had the problem of tracking down his quarry.

He was not pleased at his poor performance, and vowed that he would put it right.

--------------------------

Wesley clearly remembered the last time he had seen her, before…

He was waiting by the elevator, work was done for another day. The doors opened and there she was.

Fred looked up at him and smiled. Wes felt a flutter. "Hey Wesley," she greeted enthusiastically.

"Fred," a warm smile automatically formed.

"Going down?"

"Oh, yes," Wes nodded and stepped into the elevator.

The doors closed, and Wesley suddenly found his mind at a loss for anything to say. His realization of this made it suddenly seem like a horribly difficult situation. The urge to tell her she was beautiful almost got out, but he caught it just before he said it.

"You goin' home?" Fred's voice brought him out of the momentary daze.

"Yes, it's been a very busy day. Seems like there's always something needing researched around here."

"I know what you mean, I've got gadgets and equations and research papers and experiments spillin' out of my ears. There are so many smart people in that lab, gets pretty overwhelming having to decide who's ideas we should try out first, as well as thinkin' up plenty of my own."

"You're doing great," Wes said reassuringly. "This is a big step we've taken. We're getting settled in now, I think you have coped best out of all of us. Except maybe Lorne."

Fred chuckled. "You're right about that, he's right at home with those fancy Hollywood People."

They shared a moment. Both smiling. They looked into each other's eyes. The elevator gently hummed as it continued its downward journey.

A _ding_ broke the moment. The doors opened. As they stepped out into the lobby Fred took a deep breath, and turned to Wes. "I don't suppose you wanna grab something to ea…"

"Mr Wyndam-Pryce," a young man in a smart suit interrupted. "Have you got a few minutes, I've made a breakthrough on the Castor translation."

"I'll… I'll catch you tomorrow," Fred excused herself, and stepped away, heading for the doors.

"Sure, see you," Wesley almost called her back.

"I worked out if you substitute the standard syntax with a more…" the young man explained. Wesley had one last look at her as she walked away. He'd see her tomorrow. Then he gave the young man his full attention.

--------------------------

He was still a few minutes away. Angel didn't know the details. All he knew was that Fred had been hurt, had been shot in the head.

Oh Fred…

It was mid-afternoon. Angel knocked on the door. 'Winifred Burkle: Head of Practical Science' was neatly inscribed on the nameplate. After a couple of seconds he knocked again.

"Come in," came Fred's voice from within the office. Angel went in. Fred was sitting behind her desk, wearing her white lab coat and her glasses. Her desk was piled with papers. She was scribbling frantically on a big notepad. Angel closed the door and took a seat. After a few seconds she looked up.

"Angel," she pulled herself out of her deep thoughts. "I was just trying to figure out…"

"Fred," Angel raised a hand, "is this going to be something I will understand?"

"Probably not," Fred admitted. "What can I do for you?"

"Just checking in, wanted to make sure everything is going smoothly."

"I'm fine, the department's fine. Very busy. And, well, one of the technicians had a bit of a breakdown about an experiment he messed up. Just a few tears. Nothing I can't handle."

"Good," Angel nodded. "Oh, and accounting asked me to remind you about this month's spending…"

"Oh, right, I did that, um…" Fred began sorting through the clutter on her desk. "I've got it here somewhere."

Angel stood, "As long as you've got it to them by the end of the day I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Here!" Fred exclaimed and pulled a bright green folder out from the mass of paper. "I'll take it now, before I forget."

They walked to the elevator. Fred got off at accounting and Angel continued up to his office.

Angel arrived at the Wolfram and Hart building, parked the car in the underground garage and quickly dashed for the elevator.

--------------------------

"Winifred Burkle are you still doin' that homework?"

Young, twelve years old, Fred looked up and shook her head. "No momma, I finished that an hour ago. Jus' doin' a little more."

"Any other girl your age would be out there enjoyin' that sunny Sunday," Trish Burkle gestured out of Fred's bedroom window.

"I ain't any other girl," Fred stated. "One day I'm gonna do somethin' no one's ever done before." Fred pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and turned the page of her mathematics text book. "Something in physics I think."

Trish smiled and ran her hand through her daughter's hair. Fred was so very smart. Trish saw that her daughter was destined for something; those smarts were gonna take her a long way.

--------------------------

"He's got a gun, move!" Fred shouted. She saw Ritchie glance back, his eyes widened in fear and he froze. Fred acted purely on instinct. He was in danger. She threw herself at him, hoping to get them both down.

She heard the bang.

Then the world was falling. Fred felt a spike of pain and she knew she had been hit. As she hit the ground and the darkness consumed her mind one last thought was processed:

I don't suppose you wanna grab something to eat with me?

--------------------------

Lorne and Gunn were walking down the corridor towards the infirmary, where Fred had been taken.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them knew what to say.

Lorne entered the clean and bright environment of the lab. He quickly located who he was looking for.

"Lorne, what are you doing here?" Fred smiled and said by way of greeting. She stepped away from the lab bench where a couple of scientists were mixing stuff up with some sort of chemistry set.

"You know what time it is cupcake?"

"Uh," Fred looked at her watch, "Twelve forty-eight."

"Lunch-time. And would I be right in taking a wild guess and saying you haven't eaten yet?"

"Well, no, I have been kinda busy here and…"

"When was the last time you took a proper lunch break, a week ago, a month?"

"I guess, I haven't really…"

"That's what I thought. Today you and me are going to step out and take a proper lunch hour."

"But what about…"

"Whatever it is it can wait. You, me and some fine cuisine. I've got a friend in the kitchen over in this great little place just two blocks away."

"But," Fred motioned around the lab, "there's so much needing done around here."

"It can wait. You need to make time for yourself every now and then. Come on now, surely all this can wait for one little hour." Lorne smiled and Fred knew there was no way he was going to take no for an answer.

"Alright," Fred relented. She turned to the scientists she had been working with. "I'm taking a lunch break, you two keep at this, I expect some progress by the time I get back. Anything major comes in, you," she pointed to the scientist on the left, "are in charge 'til I'm back."

"No problem Miss Burkle," the scientist nodded, and seemed slightly panicked at the possibility of having such responsibility. Fred turned back to Lorne. "I'll just hang up my coat," she smiled.

Lorne remembered the lunch, remembered Fred's smiles face, and how excited she was about all the projects she had going on. He wished that he had read her, that she had hummed a few bars of her favorite song or something, then might have seen her fate, he might have been able to save her. Fred. Not Fred. That girl had been dealt some terrible hands by life. Her life was finally on a path she deserved, a path where she could be happy. He knew what she had gone through in Pylea. He knew what his brethren had made her suffer. Fred, why Fred? Lorne knew well that fate was often cruel, but he knew it didn't have to be. One note might have been enough for him to warn her, and prevent the bullet from hitting her.

--------------------------

The bullet in her head from the strange gun wasn't a normal bullet. The bullet was strange too.

--------------------------

As Gunn and Lorne reached the infirmary doors, Gunn looked back at everything. Fred had been so very important in his life since he had met her. He had loved her. He still loved her really, but not in the same way he used to. Murder changed things like love. But now things were better between them, things were okay.

He met her in the morning as she arrived in the building; he was leaving, on his way to court.

"Hey Charles."

"Fred." Charles Gunn, lawyer extraordinaire smiled. "How are you, haven't seen you in a couple of days."

"I'm good, the lab's keepin' me pretty busy. How about you?" Fred smiled that gorgeous smile, the one that brought back all kinds of good memories from their time together.

"Shiny. I never imagined all this lawyering could be such a blast, there's such a rush when you know that the other side is goin' down, hard."

"I bet it is. Same as when I crack a big problem that's been floatin' around my noggin all day." She brushed back some hair that had drifted in front of her big brown eyes. "Got a trial today?"

"Yeah, murder trial. Going for an insanity plea."

"Think he'll get it?."

"Not really," Gunn sighed, "Temporary insanity is a hard plea to make work, I'm running out of tricks but I want to avoid using… unethical means to secure a verdict. I want to try and work within the law."

Both of them knew that eventually working for Wolfram and Hart would mean facing a choice, just like Angel had Jake Reynolds, a choice about whether to do what needed to be done or keep to their moral duties.

"I was thinkin' we haven't done anything fun for a while, as a group I mean," Gunn said.

"I know, seems like there's never any time for fun around here," Fred agreed.

"We should try an' change that, do something completely non-work related together."

"You're right, we should do that sometime real soon," Fred wanted to, but she couldn't think when she might be free for anything other than the constant hard work that being part of Wolfram and Hart meant.

Around them lawyers, secretaries, accountants, employees of the most powerful organization on earth went about their business. Gunn saw himself now as part of something huge, but he had power, he was one of the bigger cogs in the machine, he was one of the five at the top. He often wondered what kind of power he had. In his mind, put there by the Senior Partners, he had legal knowledge, incredibly detailed legal knowledge, and other things… opera, etiquette rules for thousands of cultures, and more things he hadn't gotten to yet.

"Cool, well, I better get going, don't wanna get on the bad side of the judge by turnin' up late."

"See you."

And that was it. He had walked out of the building, she had gone right on inside. He hadn't seen her since then.

Gunn pushed open the double doors to the infirmary and he and Lorne went inside.

--------------------------

The elevator seemed to be moving at a quarter of its usual speed as he ascended within the building. Angel wanted to see her, to know what had happened and then find out who needed to be punished for it.

Finally, after an eternal journey, the doors parted and the time had come. _Fred_. He exited the elevator, keeping himself from sprinting down the corridor. He wanted to know, he wanted to see, but at the same time he was afraid because he knew that what he would see would not be something good. It would be a terrible sight: Fred with a bullet in her head.

He went into the infirmary. Standing in the waiting area were Wesley, Gunn and Lorne, all three with anxious expressions.

"What happened?" Angel asked.

"Fred," Wes replied emotionlessly, disbelievingly, "she's been shot in the back of the head." Words that Angel didn't want to hear. He looked down, he couldn't look Wes in the eye.

"The docs are working on her now," Gunn said.

Angel looked up.

Wes saw the look on Angel's face. "She's not dead. Not yet." The hopelessness in his voice was agonizing.

Angel started toward the doors that lead to the trauma room. Lorne stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Nothing we can do but wait champ." Angel nodded. And he waited. The four of them waited to find out if Fred was going to live or die; and wondered how much damage had been done to her if she did survive.

--------------------------

Huckleberry looked up at her and whined mournfully. He did not look at all good, lying on the steel table.

"Fred," her father's voice was soft and gentle, but firm too. "It's time to go, you have to say goodbye."

At ten years old Winfred Burkle had to say goodbye to old Huck, her friend. He was a cocker spaniel with a beautiful golden coat. He was always so happy, always bouncin' around with that big ol' grin of his. He was always happy to see her.

Now here he was, lying on the vet's table, the result of a Huckleberry Vs a pickup truck accident.

"Why?" Fred wondered, "he's alright, ain't you Huck?" She stroked the top of his head, he liked it when she did that. Huckleberry tried to turn towards her, but he was in such pain, he couldn't manage it.

"Oh Fred, he's hurtin' real bad, there's nothing Doc Lawnly can do for him." Fred felt her mother touch her back. Fred didn't want to leave Huck.

But, eventually, she did.

At home, once Winfred had stopped the waterworks, her parents explained to her that it would have been cruel to keep Huck alive when he was in such agony. If he lived on his life would have been terrible, he wouldn't have been the Huckleberry she loved. Letting him go was an act of love. Fred understood. Fred was quick to understand things.

"What about people. What if a person has an accident, and there's nothin' can be done for them. What if they would have a terrible life, what if they ain't the same after."

Roger and Trish Burkle looked at each other for a moment. Trish nodded. "I guess that's up to the person."

"I don't think I'd like to live if I couldn't be me."

Fred's parents were surprised at such a profound statement from such a young girl.

--------------------------

After what felt like forever the man in charge of Wolfram and Hart's infirmary, Doctor Kent Hartley emerged from the trauma room. Wesley, Angel, Gunn and Lorne all got to their feet and quickly closed in on the fair-haired Doctor. Hartley looked like a man experiencing a great deal of stress. His most immediately captivating feature was his eyes, well, one of his eyes to be exact. His left eye was an intense, but natural, blue. His right eye however was clearly not natural, not human-natural anyway. On the eyeball where there should have been white there was instead violet. The iris was a bright shade of yellow, and while his pupil was black, it was diamond-shaped.

"How is she?" Wesley demanded, his voice straining with urgency. Hartley recognized the look in Wes' eyes. It was a look he had seen many times before in his medical career; a strange, horrible, mix of shiny hope and desperate fear. He knew that his next words held an incredible power, the power to choose which way this man's soul turned; either towards the darkness of despair and grief, or the light of hope and possibility.


	3. Act Two

**ACT TWO**

A bullet is a projectile fired from a gun, usually made of an alloy of lead and tin.

The bullet in question had been used in the usual way. The trigger had been pulled. The hammer of the gun had struck the back of the bullet's casing, igniting the charge and causing a rapid expansion of gas within the confines of the chamber. The hot gas accelerated the bullet to a speed of three hundred meters per second as it traveled along the barrel. The bullet emerged from the barrel and flew gracefully through the air towards the object that the gun had been pointing at the moment the trigger had been pulled. The spin imparted by the special grooves inside the barrel prevented the bullet from tumbling and ensuring that it flew true to its target.

In this particular case the bullet glided straight for the head of Winfred Burkle. The hot metal impacted, breaking the skin. Then the bullet entered her skull. Entered her brain.

--------------------------

"She's alive," Hartley said, "just."

The relief in the gathered group of men was incredible, but it was clearest in Wesley's eyes. Wesley was looking into the doctor's eyes still, and what he saw there brought a short end to the relief. "There's a 'but'."

Hartley nodded. "The bullet is lodged deep in her brain. And there's something weird about it. It's like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Mystical?" Angel asked.

"Yes, the bullet impacted on Miss Burkle's head, breaking the skin, and causing a rather nasty wound. But when it hit the skull something else happened. There's a dent where it should have penetrated, but it didn't punch through the bone. As far as I can tell the bullet is slightly out of sync with our plain of reality. If this hadn't happened the bullet would have most likely killed her instantly."

"Does this mean that…her brain hasn't been damaged?" Wesley's other big fear, apart from Fred dying, was that if she did survive, maybe she wouldn't be Fred anymore.

"Not by the initial entry, no. The path from her skull to the bullet's present location is so far uninjured.

"So far?" Gunn picked up.

"The bullet is currently between the hippocampus and the rhinal cortex regions of her brain. It seems to be doing… something, I can't tell what yet, I need to perform more tests."

"Can I see her?" Wes asked.

"Yes, this way." Kent nodded and led them into the trauma room.

There she was: Attached by wires to machines that were monitoring her vital signs. She looked so peaceful, completely at rest, her eyes were closed now. There were bandages wrapped round her head, stopping about halfway down her forehead.

"I've treated the head wound. I will let you know as soon as I know anything more about the bullet or her condition. I can give you ten minutes with her while I'm waiting for a couple of results, then you'll have to let me conduct the next round of tests."

"Right." Angel nodded. Dr Hartley stepped back and out of the room. They didn't go any closer, as if going closer would somehow make it more real.

"Oh Fred," Wesley whispered. Slowly the four of them stepped towards her, Wes and Lorne went to the right side of her bed, Angel and Gunn to the left. They were silent. The machines hummed and beeped. The slight rise and fall of Fred's chest as she breathed was a welcome visible sign of her continued life.

"She'll pull through," Lorne said, patting her knee. "She's tough, she'll make it."

"She will." Gunn nodded.

"Yes." Wesley's voice was almost a whisper. As he looked, studying her, the features he had adored since the moment he had first laid eyes upon them, he saw how far gone she looked. Fred looked pale and empty.

The four of them stood by her side, taking in what had been done, what horror had been done to one of their own, to one of their family.

--------------------------

_Dear Diary,_

_Tomorrow I'm leaving home. Tomorrow I'm moving to Los Angeles. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, maybe even a little scared. I'm going to such a big place. But I know that is where I have to be, it's where I have to be to do what I want to do. I want to learn, I want to know everything there is to know, everything they can teach me at UCLA and more. This is my big chance to do what I want to do with my life, to go and find out if I can really do what I think I can do._

_My bags are packed. I'm all set. Mom and Dad worry, though they like to pretend they don't. L.A. is a long way away. I'm going to miss them so much. This is something I need to do. Move out, make my first big steps into the real world out there._

_I hear folks say that L.A. is a city of dreams, if it is I think I'll be right at home._

--------------------------

When Dr Hartley reentered the room Angel, Gunn and Lorne looked up at him. They could tell immediately that the doctor had news for them.

"What have you found?" Angel was first to the question. Wes now looked up at the doc too.

"I think I may know what's happening to her.

--------------------------

_I am alive because of the sacrifice she made._

Ritchie Evens knew that this was something he would have to live with for the rest of his life. She had died; taken the bullet meant for him. He hardly knew her. He wished he had known her. The kind of person who was willing to die for a man she barely knew must surely have been someone worth knowing.

He still couldn't think of any reason that anyone would want to kill him.

He had ducked into a small bar and had found himself a shadowy corner to sit and nurse the drink he had forced himself to buy in order to avoid being thrown out of the establishment.

--------------------------

"The bullet in Miss Burkle's brain is… is feeding from her, for lack of a better term. Rather than absorbing tissue, I think that it is absorbing information, specifically her memories." Dr Kent Hartley began explaining his theory. "I believe that the bullet is completely removing what it absorbs, erasing everything that makes her the person she is."

"No," Wes gasped.

"As far as I can tell, the bullet's progress is incredibly slow. I can only speculate that this isn't how it is meant to function. Presumably it was supposed to be fired, passing through the skull, quickly absorbing the memories of the target and exiting on the other side, to be retrieved."

"But it didn't work properly," Angel said.

"No, it didn't, possibly a flaw in the on the mystical side of its manufacture. My physical analysis is almost done, but the mystical side of things is going to take more time."

"Can you remove it?" Wesley asked.

"No, not at the moment, not without running the risk of causing severe damage to Miss Burkle's brain," Hartley shook his head. "The mystical element also poses problems, there's no way of telling what kind of reaction will be caused by an attempt to move the bullet." Surgery had been one of his first considerations but the positioning of the bullet and the unknown mystical factors made it far too dangerous in his opinion.

"Right, we need to get moving on this," Angel clapped his hands together. "Wes…"

"Research. Spells that might help her, possible sources of the bullet," he interrupted, he already had a few things he wanted to check in the area of mystical weaponry. He wanted nothing more than to be at her side, to be with her until she woke, but he knew that he needed to be involved in saving her. He would save her. Angel met his gaze and nodded.

"Lorne…"

"Contacts, who the Gunman is, why he did this."

"Right," Angel turned to Gunn, "we're going after whoever did this."

Gunn nodded and looked down at Fred's, motionless form. "We'll get 'em for you Fred," he squeezed her hand.

The four gave Fred a last look, each silently promising that she was not going to die. They were going to save her, they were going to find out who had done this to a member of their family, and they were going to make that person pay.

"Work fast, but work well," Angel said. He knew this was going to be tough going and he knew that if there was going to be any hope of saving her then they would need to focus on the job and get it done to the very best of their abilities.

Three of them turned and filed out of the room. Wes stayed for a couple of seconds longer.

"What are her chances?" Wesley asked the doctor. The doctor didn't answer immediately. Wesley looked at him. The doc was clearly considering his words carefully. "Be honest."

"I can't be certain without further testing but…" Hartley's demon eye gave nothing away, but his human eye revealed that the news wasn't going to be good. "At the moment I'd say her chances of recovery are slim."

"Thank you," Wesley gave Fred one final look and then left, the room, resolving to find some way of saving the most incredible person he had ever met.

--------------------------

_What Could Have Been_

They shared a moment. Both smiling. They looked into each other's eyes. The elevator gently hummed as it continued its downward journey.

A _ding_ broke the moment. The doors opened. As they stepped out into the lobby Fred took a deep breath, and turned to Wes. "I don't suppose you wanna grab something to eat with me?" She had asked on impulse. It was only after saying it that she realized what she had said.

And the moment was back. It was agonizing. Waiting for him to reply. But when he met her gaze she knew that she had done the right thing. That look in his eyes. That small smile forming on his lips.

"Yes, I'd love to."

He said yes! He said Yes! He said Yes!

Okay what now? You should have thought this through before jumping in.

I know he likes me. I think I know he likes me.

"Great," Fred grinned. Someone brushed by and disappeared into the elevator. She felt something change, something that had been waiting for this exact moment. A door inside that had been waiting to be opened, and now that it had, the feelings that had been building up behind it were flowing out.

But what if this isn't what he wants? Best to be clear.

"Wesley… I… I want this to be more than just two colleagues, two friends having dinner."

"Oh."

"I'm asking you…"

"On a date," Wesley's smile got that little bit wider (_Oh that's a good sign)_, he moved a little closer to her.

"Yeah," Fred moved towards him too.

After dinner, a wonderful meal in a rather expensive restaurant, and the most fun and smart and amazing conversation Fred had ever experienced, Wesley drove her home.

He walked her to her front door. Fred put the key in the lock and turned to him. There came the beginnings of an awkward moment.

I wanna kiss him, but I don't want to push him too fast.

The Fred realized she really shouldn't think so much about these things.

And they kissed.

Lips gently pressed together. Fred's stomach fluttered, her heart-skipped a beat, she stopped breathing. She stopped thinking. All that mattered were his lips on hers and how right it felt. How completely, absolutely, wholly, beautifully right it felt. She cursed herself for waiting so long. But it had been worth waiting for, it was right. The friendship that had grown and grown had finally blossomed into it's true form.

And it was there, standing outside her door, kissing him properly for the first time, kissing him and meaning it with all her heart, that…

A rumble of thunder, loud, deafening. The air took on an uncomfortable tingle. The perfect moment was shattered. Their lips jerked apart and they looked up at the sky. The amazingly cloudless starry night was being ruined by horrible tendrils of electric blue, sparking and twisting across the sky.

"What's happening?" Fred wondered aloud.

"I have no idea…" Wesley's hand found hers. She held onto him tightly. Dark fear was quickly overwhelming the joyous feelings of the seconds before.

The tendrils were now lashing down from the sky, leaving a cracking haze of blue in their wake.

It's the end of the world. At the worst possible moment…it's the end of the world.

"I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," Wesley said quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the increasing rumblings from the sky, and other directions too. The tendrils and the crackling blue haze were getting closer and closer. Fred and Wesley were right in the center of it all.

"It's not fair. I've only just found you," Fred looked at him, and he looked back at her.

"Since when have our lives been fair?" Wes sighed.

With their arms around each other they watched the approaching storm of destruction. It was silent now, methodically creeping towards them, consuming the sky and consuming the world.

"I'm afraid Wesley."

"I'm here Fred."

She could tell he was being strong for her. She was glad of it. The end was here, the details didn't matter, all that mattered is that she would never know beyond this night if she and Wesley could have found lasting happiness with each other.

"I'm here," he repeated as the last of the sky was gobbled up, the stars winking out of existence. It was a horrible end to such a wonderful night.

This isn't what happened.

No. Fred looked around. No, this really wasn't what happened.

"This is wrong," she spoke quietly. Wesley squeezed her a little tighter. The crackling dark blue haze continued relentlessly, coming in on Fred and Wes from all around and from the sky above their heads.

"Yes, it's not what happened." Wesley agreed.

"_I don't suppose you wanna grab something to ea…"_

"_Mr Wyndam-Pryce…"_

Fred remembered her disappointment at missing her moment.

"Then what's this?" Fred looked around, the menacing haze creeping ever closer. She could remember leaving Wes, walking away from the missed moment. But after…

"A dream? Wesley suggested.

This is what could have been. Almost. The haze, the destruction. This wasn't part of the dram. This was something else. Something terrible.

"If this is a dream, then you're not really here," she said sadly.

"No, I'm not."

It was close now, the final seconds.

"I'm glad you're here anyways." She pressed herself to him and he wrapped his arms comfortingly around her.

"Me too," he replied softly. "Me too."

And the bullet completed it's absorption of her dream. It's assault on her mind had begun.

--------------------------

Wesley had been researching for less than ten minutes when the idea came to him. Quickly he made a phone call, gathered up the relevant texts and rushed to the infirmary to discuss his idea with Dr Hartley.

--------------------------

Fred looked at the frozen scene she suddenly found herself in. She recognized the location right away; she was outside the Wolfram and Hart building.

For a moment she found herself reaching for something, as if holding something, or someone. But like a fading dream she couldn't grasp quite what it was she was reaching for.

The feeling left her, and she quickly forgot it as she looked at the scene before her. Everything was as silent as a photograph, a captured moment in life. She saw herself, suspended in mid-air, in the middle of crashing into someone. It took her a moment to recognize him as Evans, the guy from accounting who had stopped her outside the building.

Fred looked up, a piece suddenly clicking into place. She saw the motorcyclist all in black, his strange silver gun pointed right at her frozen self.

Something very strange was happening. Fred couldn't understand why she was seeing this; Why could she see herself? Why was the world still, time unmoving? She remembered Evans freezing like a deer in headlights as the Gunman took aim. She remembered charging into him in hope of getting him out of the way, in hope of saving his life.

"Oh," Fred saw something. She moved closer to her frozen self and it confirmed what she had suspected. Hanging in the air, pressed against the back of her head was a bullet, it looked like any other, except it had a weird blue tint to it. "I'm dead," she took rapid steps back. "The bullet killed me."

She looked all around, panicking, looking for some sign that what she was seeing was some kind of trick. Then she turned her search inward, and to her horror, she could find no memory of what happened next. This scene was the very last thing that she could recall.

"You took the bullet for me." Fred looked up and saw that Evans was no longer in mid-flight but standing beside her, gazing at her the frozen Winifred Burkle. "You gave up you're life for me."

"If I'm dead, this doesn't make sense," Fred again looked around. "It don't make no sense at all."

"No, if you're dead then what's this?" Evans wondered.

--------------------------

Fred now had a metal cap over her head, connected by a tangle of wires to a display screen Dr Hartley had set up beside the bed. Hartley considered himself most fortunate to have such a device at his disposal, it was an invention of Wolfram and Hart's science department. It was a sophisticated brain scanner, a way of looking at Fred's brain on both the physical and mystical level. It enabled him to see in detail exactly what the bullet was doing, it allowed him to see what progress it was making. To most others on the planet the image on the monitor was utterly indecipherable, but to Hartley's specially trained eye it was giving him a real time view on her condition.

"It's started." Hartley said to Wes who was standing by his side, attempting to try and make sense of the bizarre image on the monitor. "The bullet is beginning to take a hold,"

"She needs to know, she needs to be able to fight it," Wesley said.

"Your suggestion presents a number of dangers, however, I believe that if she is made aware, and if she has someone in this world to tether her then it may slow the bullet's progress. In fact, it might even be possible to stop it altogether if enough will can be channeled to her mind. It could buy us time."

Wesley's idea was fairly straightforward. Employing the services of Wolfram and Hart's psychics, he intended to create a bridge from his mind to Fred's. He had read up and double checked that it would be possible and now he was certain that it was. With three psychics and the proper mystical channeling it could be done.

He glanced anxiously at the door. What was taking those psychics so long?

"I am going to insist that you also allow me to monitor your brain. If there is any sign that something is amiss with either you or Miss Burkle I will call a halt to proceedings immediately."

Wesley nodded. Whatever it took. As long as it worked.

--------------------------

The Gunman loaded his new bullet into the gun. He was determined not to fail for a second time. He mounted his motorcycle and set off on his second attempt.

--------------------------

"Yes," Angel answered his cell-phone.

"Sir, this is Jack Gibson," the voice on the other end said.

"Have you got a location on the Gunman?" Angel asked. He immediately recognized Gibson as Wolfram and Hart's chief of security. Angel was driving, Gunn was in the passenger seat beside him, listening intently to the conversation.

"Not yet sir, but I do have something else. The surveillance of the incident shows another employee was involved, a Richard Evans. He works in accounting. From what I can tell it looks like he may have been the real target. Miss Burkle pushed him down and the bullet hit her instead."

Angel felt a twinge of bittersweet pride. This had happened to her because she had saved a fellow human's life. Fred had taken a bullet that was meant for someone else. "So, what does Evans have to say? Does he know who's behind the shooting, does he know why?"

"He ran from the scene, but we have managed to track him down by triangulating the position of his cell-phone," Gibson reported.

"Good work. Where is he?"

Gibson told him.

"Keep on that gunman, I want him found. Finding him is priority number one."

"Yes sir."

Angel hung up.

"We got somewhere to go?" Gunn asked. He had become frustrated with the aimless driving around he and Angel had been doing, searching for the Gunman.

Angel yanked the handbrake and one-eighty'd the car, much to the dismay of other drivers.

"We got somewhere to go," Angel confirmed as the engine roared.

--------------------------

Everything was in position. Wesley glanced at his watch. It had only been an hour and forty minutes since Fred had been shot. It felt like it had been an eternity since he had seen her there, lying in a pool of her blood.

"Okay, I'm all set," Hartley had completed arranging the second brain scanner.

Wes looked up from his position at Fred's bedside and nodded. He turned towards the three psychics who were waiting by the door.

"We are ready," the three said as one in a muffled drone. The three psychics were figures completely concealed by hooded black cloaks. Not an inch of their flesh could be seen. Their faces were also covered. There were two small eye holes in the face coverings, holes so small that the eyes could not be seen.

Wesley stood and took his place, lying on a bed that had been placed a few meters to the left of Fred's. Hartley moved in and fitted the metal cap of the second brain scanner. It was a tight fit. Wesley stared at the ceiling, eager to get started, to carry out his plan and to help Fred.

Hartley made a few final adjustments and then switched on Wesley's scanner. The monitor flickered to life. The doctor watched it for a few seconds and then nodded at the psychics.

The three silently moved into position. Wesley had already performed some preparatory rituals on both himself and Fred. One psychic stood with a wrinkled and clawed, three fingered hand over Wesley's face.

"Close your eyes. Relax," the three whispered. Wesley did as they said. He tried his best to clear his anxiety. He had a sudden fear that maybe he wouldn't be able to help her. He pushed such unhelpful thoughts out of his mind.

The second psychic took up a similar position over Fred. The third stood between his brethren, acting as the link between them.

After a few seconds the three psychics began to hum quietly in rising and falling tones. The three were in perfect harmony.

Hartley had stepped well back and was looking back and forth between the two brain scanner monitors, watching carefully for any sign of problems.

The humming sound gently increased in volume.

Wesley felt himself relaxing. His body felt loose, like a suit that was a few sizes too big for him. He kept himself calm. He knew what was happening and he put his trust in the abilities of the psychics. After all, they had been in the employ of the firm for some time. If they weren't very good at their jobs, the old regime would have terminated their contracts. He felt light and airy. He felt himself drifting. Then he lost consciousness.

Hartley continued his careful observation; so far, everything seemed to be going as planned.

--------------------------

"Maybe this is hell," Fred looked around at her surroundings. The L.A. landscape looked the same as always, tall buildings and bright lights. The frozen moment of her death however was most unsettling. She had taken a closer look at the bullet and was now sure that it must have killed her. Must have torn through her brain tissue, carving a path of destruction like a tornado though a small town.

"If it were hell, wouldn't you be suffering a bit more?" Evens suggested. Fred was starting to suspect that he might not really be here, that he might be some figment of her imagination. She looked again at the captured moment. The knowledge that she was dead was pretty hellish.

It troubled her that there was so much she had left unsaid and so many things that had been left undone.

"There must be other possibilities," Evans, or whatever he was, said.

"A dream?" Fred shook her head. "No, that don't feel right. I don't feel dead, but, this isn't real, this isn't life."

"Fred."

She spun around, instantly recognizing the voice. "Wesley!" Fred exclaimed.

--------------------------

"So what do we know about this Evans dude?" Gunn asked. Angel was driving fast. They were only a few minutes away from the location provided by Gibson.

"He works in accounting. I remember seeing him today, he asked me to chase up Fred about some spending report or something this morning. Hopefully he'll be able to give us information on what this is about, and lead us to whoever is responsible for doing this to Fred."

"Then we kick some ass," Gunn said.

"Then we kick a lot of ass." Angel was not going to let anyone who hurt Fred get away with it, no matter who they had intended to shoot.

--------------------------

"It's me," Wesley confirmed, a broad grin breaking out on his face. It had worked. It had worked! Fred returned his grin and dashed over to him.

"Wesley, what's happening?" Fred gestured to the frozen world around her, to the image of herself. Evans had retaken his position in the moment.

Wesley started for a few seconds. It was horrible seeing it, seeing the instant that the bullet had taken her down.

"Wes?"

He looked her in the eyes. For a moment he imagined that everything was fine, that her life wasn't hanging in the balance. Then he quickly got back to the task in hand.

"I have to be quick. I'm not sure how much time I've got. Fred, you've been shot, in the head."

Fred glanced at her frozen form and nodded.

"The bullet is mystical, slightly outside of our plain of existence," Wesley explained.

"That's why I'm not dead." Fred took a deep breath. "How bad is it?" She saw in his eyes when she asked the question that the situation was far from good. Wesley's hesitation confirmed that thought.

"It's… bad. The bullet seems to be trying to attack your mind, specifically your memories and your knowledge."

"What does 'attack' mean exactly?" Fred felt cold dread flutter in her chest.

"The doctor believes that it is absorbing your memories, taking them from your brain." The look on her face as he told her almost broke his heart.

"How fast?" Fred asked shakily.

"That's the good news. It's working very slowly. The doctor thinks that the bullet isn't working properly, he thinks that the magic used to make it may have been flawed in some way."

Fred opened her mouth to say something when suddenly the world shook violently.

--------------------------

The image on Fred's brain scanner monitors shifted abruptly. Doctor Hartley stepped closer.

"A minor ripple," the three chorused. "Nothing of concern. We are able to continue."

Hartley looked again at Fred's monitor. The image was still erratic. He was about to insist that they stop when the reading settled back down. He waited a few moments and then stepped back again.

--------------------------

The shaking stopped just as quickly as it had started. Wesley and Fred looked around uneasily for a few seconds.

"I think we're okay," Wesley said.

"Right," Fred didn't look too convinced. Truth be told, Wesley wasn't exactly all that sure either. "Where exactly are we?"

"Inside your subconscious," Wes replied, "inside your memories. I'm here via a psychic link."

Fred nodded. "Can you get it out?"

"We're working on it. Medical, science and research departments are all putting everything we've got into figuring out how to make a safe extraction."

"What are my chances?" As Wes began to answer, Fred interrupted. "Please, be honest with me."

"Of course," Wesley agreed. "Chances are good, everyone is confident that we can do it. With the firm's resources the chances are good." He took a breath. "I'm here because you can help us. You have to fight the process, try to hold on to your memories, to who you are. Slow it down."

"Of course I'll fight, I'm not gonna let my mind be… absorbed." Fred couldn't imagine any worse fate than what was happening to her now. Her mind and memories were being taken, and she was fully aware of what was happening to her.

This time it was Wesley who was about to say something when the shaking began.

--------------------------

The erratic pattern on Fred's monitor was back. Hartley again looked to the psychics. To his horror they all give a sudden, sharp cry of pain.

--------------------------

Dark blue lightening ripped across the night sky. A field of cracking blue roared and crackled as it expanded rapidly, tendrils viciously reaching out in all directions. Fred felt pure fear. This was it. She knew this was the horrible attack, the bullet was taking this memory. She looked to Wesley in desperation, but he had vanished.

_I have to fight this_, she vowed to herself. "Remember." Fred looked all around, and then she focused on her frozen self in the moment of the bullet's impact. She wondered if Evans had survived, she wondered what had happened to him, if her actions had been worth it. She hadn't had the chance to ask Wes.

Fred felt terrified and alone as the dark blue consumed her memory, removing it completely from her brain. She could feel it happening. All that was left now was the shrinking area she was standing in, right in front of her was her frozen self.

And then the tendrils shimmered over Evans' face.

Fred looked at the scene and to her horror she didn't know who the faceless individual was. She knew that the memory had been there moments ago, she knew that it had just been taken.

More and more of the man she had saved was consumed.

"No! I will remember! I will fight!" Fred yelled at the relentless cloud that was taking over her mind. Over and over in her thoughts she focused on what Wesley had told her, willing everything she had that she would remember and that she would fight.

The frozen vision was almost gone, the tendrils were almost touching her.

I will remember. I will fight.

I will remember. I will fight.

Then the dark blue washed over her.

The memory was gone.

The bullet started absorbing the next one.

--------------------------

Angel brought the car to a jolting halt. They had arrived. Angel and Gunn quickly got out of the car and headed into the diner. They didn't see the motorcycle ridden by a figure clad in black arrive moments later…

Ritchie Evans decided it was time to get moving. He wasn't sure where he was going to go yet. He finished his coffee and was about to wave over the waitress when he saw Wolfram and Hart's C.E.O. and a lawyer heading across the diner, coming straight for him. They did not look at all pleased. Ritchie's heart skipped a beat. There was nothing he could do, nowhere that he could go. He knew the boss was a vampire and could easily catch him if he ran. And then his eyes shifted to the figure that had just entered the diner. It was the Gunman. Ritchie Evan's worry escalated to full-blown terror.


	4. Act Three

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Love it hate it reviews are very apriciated, let me know what you like or don't like about the season so far.

**ACT THREE**

Wesley tore off the metal cap and bolted up into a sitting position. "What happened?" He demanded. He saw the three psychics standing at the doorway, their fully covered forms giving away nothing. Hartley on the other hand was an open book. Something had gone terribly wrong. "What happened!?" Wes repeated.

"The memory absorption has accelerated," Hartley reported. "The bullet seems to have taken a boost from the psychics somehow."

Wes had an awful moment as he realized that his idea to help Fred had in fact made the situation worse. "How much has it accelerated by?"

"Several hundred percent. I can't be certain without further observation." Hartley stared at the monitor, intensely watching the image. Finally, he looked at Wes and met his gaze. "At the rate the absorption is progressing… I'd say all of Miss Burkle's memories will be gone within a few hours."

Wesley rubbed his eyes and tried to take it all in.

He had failed her. He had caused this. He had made Fred's dire situation even worse.

--------------------------

As Angel and Gunn approached they saw Ritchie Evans stand up from the table he was sitting at and start backing away. The accountant was clearly frightened. Angel wondered if this was a sign of guilt, a sign that perhaps his involvement was deeper than they thought.

However, as they got closer, Angel realized that it wasn't him or Gunn that Evans was glaring at in fear, but something behind them. Angel spun round to see a figure, in all black leathers and a black helmet, visor down, marching purposefully through the diner. The motorcycle rider pulled out a silver gun, similar to a long barreled revolver. It clicked in Angel and Gunn's minds. It was the Gunman, the one who had shot Fred. All around the patrons and staff of the diner reacted with panic, some ducking, some raising their hands, some rushing for the door, and some just sat back to watch the show.

The rider in black brought up his gun, striding straight towards Evens. Angel and Gunn placed themselves in his path. "Who are you?" Angel demanded. The figure in black stopped walking, gun half raised. He glanced over to Evans who had pressed himself up against the back wall, eyes wide.

"This does not concern you," the Gunman said in deep voice, partly muffled by the motorcycle helmet he was wearing.

"The girl you shot concerns me," Angel said. He was struggling to hold himself back from doing serious physical damage to the individual who had put a bullet in Fred's brain.

"That was unintentional," the Gunman replied. "I am here for him." The Gunman pointed with his free hand to Evans.

"Who are you?" Angel asked.

"What's this about?" Gunn asked.

"It does not concern either of you. Step aside and I will be on my way. I apologize for killing the woman."

"She isn't dead," Angel said. "But that doesn't matter. I want to know who you're working for."

"No," the Gunman shook his head. "Step aside or I will be forced to remove you."

"Not gonna happen," Gunn straightened himself up, a fight was looking unavoidable. The Gunman cocked his head to the side, as if considering his options.

"Very well," the Gunman intoned and nodded. Suddenly he lashed out, smashing the butt of the gun into the side of Angel's head and punching Gunn's left temple with a leather-gloved fist. Both heroes went sprawling to the floor.

Evans yelped in terror as he saw the gun coming up, aiming at his head. For the second time in one night he was staring down the barrel of a gun, but this time Fred wasn't there to get him out of the way and take the bullet for him.

The Gunman pulled the trigger.

--------------------------

"There has to be something you can do!" Wesley exclaimed determinedly.

"I'm sorry, there isn't," Doctor Hartley replied for the third time. "The process has accelerated, there is nothing I can do to get it to slow down again."

"How about you?" Wesley spun to confront the three psychics.

"We are unable to help," the three chorused.

"What if we tried again, I could go in and try to…"

"No, it's too dangerous, it could just as easily result in the absorption accelerating even more." Hartley wished there was something he could do. The man before him was clearly falling apart under the strain of what had happened.

Wesley slumped down in the chair at Fred's bedside and took her hand in both of his own. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I made it worse for you." He looked at her. She was beautiful even now, even with everything she was trickling away. "Fight it Fred, fight it." He squeezed her hand.

Hartley came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's still hope," the doctor said. "There's still things that can be done, research, tests, maybe we can come up with a way to stop this." Hartley offered Wesley a way out of the despair he was feeling. And Wesley took it.

"You're right. She's not gone yet. There are still plenty of other avenues of research. Fred, I promise, I won't let this happen, I won't. Just hold on. _Fight!_" He gave her hand a final squeeze and he stood. He headed quickly for the door. As he left he turned back to Hartley. "If anything changes…"

"I'll let you know."

Wes nodded and left the room, his determination renewed.

--------------------------

Bang!

A single shot rang out.

A flash of blue flame licked the air from the barrel of the silver gun.

At that exact moment Angel shoulder barged the Gunman throwing off his aim.

The bullet zipped through the air and hit flesh, but not Evans' head as intended. Instead the bullet tore through his right shoulder and burst out the other side, burying itself into the wall.

Ritchie Evans cried out as burning pain jagged out through his body. For a second he managed to stay standing, leaning against the wall. Then he collapsed, leaving a smudged trail of red as he slid to the floor. Blood seeped out from his wound, from both the point of entry and the point of exit.

The Gunman hit the ground. As he did he struck Angel again with the butt of the gun, this time hitting him on the forehead. Angel pulled back and avoided most of the force of the blow. Both Angel and the Gunman got to their feet, facing each other. Gunn too was getting up. Angel had a trickle of blood running down the side of his face from the Gunman's first strike.

"Give it up," Angel commanded.

The Gunman responded by darting forward. Angel slipped into a defensive stance just in time to block a left punch and step out of the way of the follow-up swipe at his legs. The Gunman stepped back and nodded, perhaps some sort of sign of respect. "Not human I see," he said and then put his gun away so that both hands were free for fighting.

Angel waited for the leather-clad Gunman to make his move. He didn't have to wait long. The Gunman pounced, unleashing a rapid flourish of increasingly powerful and quick punches. Angel blocked and stepped back.

Gunn turned his attention to Evans, who as lying slumped unconscious on his side. He made his way quickly over to the injured accountant and crouched beside him. Gunn checked Evans' pulse; it was good. He took off his suit jacket and pressed it against the shoulder wound. For a brief moment he noted that he was ruining a very expensive jacket.

_Enough._ Angel decided. Fred was in danger; time was of the essence. He had to take action to get this done. Angel carefully picked his moment and then launched his assault, driving his right fist powerfully into the Gunman's chest. The Gunman staggered back. Angel lashed out with his right foot, again hitting his opponent square on the chest. This time the Gunman flew back, crashing hard into a table and sending mugs, plates and chairs crashing to the floor.

Gunn looked around at the commotion and was pleased to see that it was Angel who was dishing out the pain and not the other way around.

--------------------------

"Oh Charles, they're beautiful!" Fred exclaimed, eyes wide, as Gunn presented her with a dozen red roses.

"You're beautiful." He smiled. Fred looked into his eyes and saw the love he felt for her. She knew that he would be seeing the same look in her eyes. She took the roses and brought them up, inhaling the gorgeous scent deeply. Fred looked back at Charles and threw her arms round him, roses and all. Their lips met in a tender kiss.

I must remember.

I must fight.

Fred suddenly pulled away. She remembered this. She remembered that all this was memory.

"Fred?" Gunn's expression changed from adoration to concern. "What's wrong?"

This had been happy, the memory was much better then remembering what was really happening to her. Fred shook her head, no, that didn't matter. She had to keep in mind what was happening to her. She had to hold onto it, so she could try to hold onto this moment, fight for it. This memory was a good memory, a memory full of love. The feelings she had felt here, at this time in her life, were gone now, but that didn't mean that she wanted them to have never existed. Charles had helped her a lot, their relationship had played a big part in grounding her back to her life after her five terrible years in Pylea.

Horribly, Fred found that she didn't know why she and Charles were no longer together. She remembered that in the real 'now' she had feelings for Wesley, and that Gunn was a good friend. But she had no idea why or how this seemingly blissful relationship had turned sour. Those memories were already gone taken from her by the bullet in her brain.

"Fred," Charles said, "tell me what's wrong."

Fred ignored him, ignored her mental representative of the man she knew. "Okay, I have to stay here, I have to hold on."

I must remember.

She wondered how many memories she had tried to hold onto before, she wonder how many times she had failed.

"Fred!"

She wondered how long it had been, in the real world, since she had been shot. Hours? Days? Months? She had no way of knowing. She didn't even know if her attempts to hold on to her memories were doing her any good.

Fred grabbed Gunn's hand. "Tell me," he was practically begging with her.

"You wouldn't understand. But I need you to talk, I need you to keep me here. Help me stay." Fred was determined not to let go this time. She resolved that the bullet wasn't going to take any more of her memories away.

--------------------------

The Gunman stood.

"Ready to give up and start talking yet?" Angel asked.

The Gunman considered this for a moment. He glanced over to his target, injured, and still within his grasp. The Gunman turned his attentions back to the vampire. "Nope." The Gunman grabbed one of the toppled chairs and hurled it at Angel. Angel leapt aside, straight into the path of a second chair thrown by the Gunman. The back of the chair struck Angel full in the face, knocking him down. The Gunman closed in. Angel hooked his foot round the leg of a nearby table and, with a powerful kick, sent it skipping across the floor. The Gunman twisted out of the way, almost. The side of the table clipped his right hip. Angel rolled up to his feet, his nose bloodied. He vamped out as he rushed forward to attack. The Gunman backhanded Angel across the face and kept the movement going, sweeping up a glass coffee pot and smashing it on the other side of Angel's face. Despite the pain Angel managed to lash out, hitting the Gunman in the stomach with his left fist. The vampire followed up, striking out again and again. The Gunman blocked and dodged but more and more of Angel's blows got through. Suddenly the Gunman ducked and attempted a sweep at Angel's legs with his right foot. Angel spotted the move just in time and leapt straight up, the Gunman's leg passing harmlessly under him. As he reached the apex of his jump Angel kicked out with all his might, pouring out all the anger he felt towards the Gunman for what he had done to Fred into this one devastating kick. His right foot caught the Gunman just below the motorcycle helmet.

The Gunman's head snapped back. The impact sent him flying, he flipped once end over end before his leg smashed into one of the diner's tables and he went spinning into another. Angel waited a few moments. The Gunman didn't get up. He was lying motionless on the floor. Angel could hear heartbeats and breath sounds, indicating that the Gunman was still alive. Angel's face smoothed out to human form and he looked at Gunn and Evans.

"How is he?" Angel asked.

"I think he's starting to come around," Gunn replied. As if on cue, Evans groaned.

"Good." Angel nodded.

"Are you alright?" Gunn thought the wounds on Angel's face looked pretty nasty.

"I'm fine, looks worse than it is." Angel was in no mood for chatting; now was a time for action. "Wake him up, see if you can get him talking. I'll see what this joker has to say."

"Right, and we should get the bullet too." Gunn motioned to the blood ringed hole in the wall where the bullet had been embedded after exiting Evans' shoulder. "It might help the doc."

"Okay." Angel started towards the downed Gunman, intending to begin the interrogation.

The Gunman, however, had a different plan. He jerked up into a sitting position and tossed a small clear-glass sphere into the air. Before Angel could react, the sphere detonated in a brilliant burst of white. Angel's vision instantly went completely dark and to add to his troubles a splitting headache overwhelmed him.

The Gunman, protected by his visor was unharmed by the detonation.

Angel lost all sense of time, that's how bad the pain was. Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the pain vanished, leaving him with the problem of total blindness. Being a vampire however this was not utterly disastrous. Using his other senses Angel could tell that the Gunman was on the move, heading to exit. He could also hear that both Gunn and Evans were still alive.

"Angel!" Gunn called out, he had no such enhanced senses, so he had no idea if Angel had suffered more serious effects than blindness.

"I'm okay. Blind, but okay." As he spoke his sight started to slowly return. The world slowly fading back into existence. "My sight's coming back, I'm going after the Gunman." Angel moved cautiously but quickly, concentrating on his memory of the diner's layout. With each step, his sight improved. By the time he reached the door it was nearly back to normal.

And there he was.

The Gunman looked back at the vampire as he leapt onto his motorcycle and started it up. He accelerated quickly away.

Angel dashed for the car but was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the vehicle's shredded tires; the bad guy had had a few spare seconds to sabotage the car while Angel was recovering from the flash-bomb. Angel could only watch as the Gunman escaped into the Los Angeles night.

He took out his cellphone and called the office. "I need transport for myself, Gunn and a prisoner at this location," he said. He was deeply frustrated by the Gunman's escape. He was the one who had hurt Fred and so was their best lead on finding a way of helping her. "Oh, and tell the police and press that the incident here is of no interest to them," he added.

"Understood sir, transport should be with you within ten minutes."

Angel hung up and headed back into the diner. At least now they had a couple of solid leads to work on. The bullet would hopefully be of use to the science and medical teams. As for Evans, Angel was going to find out the extent of his involvement in Fred's shooting, and find out everything that the accountant knew.

--------------------------

Dr Hartley entered the room and studied the brain scanner monitor. The bullet's progress was steady, unwavering. Watching as Fred's memories were methodically taken from her was sickening. He felt so helpless. He'd had years of medical and mystical training, and even more years of experience. But now there was nothing he could do, none of his knowledge could do anything to slow the destruction of the girl's mind.

--------------------------

Wesley was trying to study six texts simultaneously, his eyes darting between them, desperately searching for a way to help Fred, and make up for his earlier error. He flipped over a couple of the pages and slammed one of the volumes closed.

"Mr Wyndam-Pryce?"

Wesley continued reading, utterly engrossed in his work.

"Sir."

Wesley turned another of the pages.

"Sir." A little louder this time.

Wesley finally looked up, recognizing the man before him as the man he had been talking to in the lobby when Fred had been shot. "This better be important."

"I'm trying to translate a proto-Smillnuem dialect and I've run into a few problems. Some of the others in the department have had a go and…"

"What's the relation to Miss Burkle's condition?"

"We found a reference in another document that suggested that some early Smillnuem tribes experimented with memory influencing magic, in particular ways of extracting memory."

Wesley considered for a moment. Memory manipulation was a fairly well documented area of magic; however, this specific function, the removal of memories by a projectile was something new. He glanced down at the texts arranged on his desk and then he nodded. "Show me." He decided that the lead sounded promising enough for him to leave his own lines of research for a few minutes.

--------------------------

There was a knock at the door. Fred turned her gaze towards the sound, dismissed it as her imagination, and resumed writing on the wall with a black marker pen.

There was another knock, this time a bit louder.

Fred paused. She looked at the door.

"Fred?"

After a few seconds, she frowned. Perhaps not her imagination after all. "C-c-come in?"

Cordelia entered, smiling, carrying a mug of what appeared to be coffee. "Fred," she smiled, and looked round at the room. "Nice to see you're settling in."

"Oh yes, settling in fine, very nice, much better than…" Fred stopped and looked away, finding the equation for the portal that she had written on the wall.

"Um, I brought you coffee." Cordelia's smile broadened awkwardly.

Fred looked back at Cordelia. She still couldn't quite believe that this was real, that she was really here, back home. Coffee. There hadn't been any coffee in Pylea. Fred waited to see if the world would all fade away, if she would wake up and find out that the handsome man and his friends were all figments of her deluded mind.

Cordelia came over and sat down beside her on the floor. "You're safe now," she said.

Fred looked around the room. She had only been here for a week. So far, nothing had gone wrong, but she knew that eventually it would. At sometime or another there would be bad things. Maybe a portal would open up and suck her back to that place.

"You have nothing to worry about here." Cordelia held out the mug. Hesitantly Fred reached out and took it.

"Thanks," Fred said quietly and took a sip of the hot liquid. Her eye darted over the equations she had been writing up. She put the mug down and then leaned forward. She added a few more numbers to the newest line.

"What you, uh, working on here?" Cordy motioned to Fred's work.

"A few basics."

"Basics… _right_."

Fred froze and suddenly scrambled over to a blank section of wall.

"Fred?" Cordelia asked, after a few moments she went over and joined Fred, who was writing frantically. "I must remember, I must fight," Cordelia read. "What does that mean?"

"It means you're not real, it means none of this is real." Fred wrote her mantra out over and over again.

"Of course this is real, Fred, you're safe here. Nothing's going to hurt you here."

Fred looked at Cordelia, Doubts danced in Fred's mind. Was it possible that her thoughts of memories fading were a product of an over-active imagination? Fred concentrated. If this wasn't real then Cordelia wasn't real so...

"What was the name of the first dog we had back home?" Fred asked. This was something she was sure she hadn't told Cordelia. Fred willed Cordy to answer the question correctly anyway. She focused completely on making Cordelia answer.

"Huckleberry," Cordelia replied.

Fred nodded. Then she saw the cracking blue haze slowly blossoming across the ceiling behind Cordelia. And she knew it wasn't her imagination. She knew that this time the nightmares were real.

--------------------------

Lorne had just gotten back from a fruitless meeting with a contact. He slumped behind his desk and rubbed his tired eyes. He flipped open his book of contacts. Now he was using one of his older lists, one that he had complied during his years at Caratas. To say that Lorne was downhearted would have been a massive understatement. He'd lost count of the number of calls he had made and not one of them had turned up anything even remotely useful. No one knew anything about who was behind the shooting or what the reasons behind it were.

Lorne was reaching for the phone to begin trying some more numbers when it started ringing. Lorne felt an odd shiver run down his spine. He frowned. Then he answered the phone. "Hello."

"Lorne, thank god!" Lorne tried to place the voice. "I need your help. You're still running with that gang of champions aren't you?"

"I sure am…" Lorne finally recalled whom the voice belonged to. Her name was Michelle, she had been a regular at Caratas for a couple of years, before moving on after Lorne advised her that hanging out with demons was not a path in her life that would lead to good places. "…Michelle, it's been a while."

"It has, took me a couple of hours to track you down," Michelle said quickly. Clearly something was distressing her.

"Actually I'm…" Lorne started to explain that he was extremely busy at the moment.

"This is important," Michelle interrupted. "I'm in trouble Lorne, really big trouble." Her tone of voice was desperate.

"Michelle, honey, any other night…"

"Please, this isn't just about me. You need to know what I know, you and your champions need to know."

Lorne was stuck in a moment of terrible indecision. Answering this call for help would mean putting his quest to find some way of helping Fred on hold, and that was something he was very reluctant to do. Fred needed him to find someone out there who would be able to help her and save her from the awful predicament she was in.

"Please, this is a matter of life and death. Not just for me." She paused, and when she continued she spoke in a hushed tone. "Lorne, I'm talking fate of the world stuff here."

To Lorne she sounded heartbreakingly genuine. She really was terrified. Lorne knew from his readings of her that she wasn't the sort of person to make up this kind of thing.

"Please," Michelle pleaded.

Lorne glanced at his contacts book. And then he made one of the most difficult choices of his life.

--------------------------

She ran, searching for the monster that the man who had saved her had become. Bad things always happened in this place. It was like a fundamental law, as solid as Newton's Second was in the world she often dreamed of.

He had saved her, so she had to help him and try to make sure that nothing else bad happened. He had only become this creature because he had been trying to protect her, fighting off the Chief's guards.

Fred clutched the bag of blood she was carrying close to her chest. She hoped that she would be able to lure him to her, to take him safely back to her cave where she could make him better again. Nothing bad ever happened in the cave. It was her sanctuary from all the badness in the world, from those who called her cow and beat her when she did wrong. Painful memories stirred and she touched the silver collar around her neck nervously. With all the commotion going on lately there was the danger that she may well run into guards or men from the town. An encounter with either group would not be fun by any definition and would likely result in a frantic pursuit. She had already been caught once today and if caught again she doubted her luck would bring a second hero to rescue her from the kreble's blade.

She paused. Maybe she hadn't escaped at all and this was all some crazy dream she was having in the last moments of her life as the blade rapidly descended to sever her scrawny cow head from her scrawny cow body.

"_It's not a dream Fred,"_ the handsome man had told her. She had predicted that if he was real, if this was real then something bad would happen. Something bad had happened. Fred resumed her run.

She heard shouting up ahead. Fred picked up the pace and stumbled on a tree root. She kept on going. Fred finally saw them in a clearing just ahead. She stepped up onto a rock. She saw the creature the handsome man had become, she saw him pinning down a black man while a white man shouted "Angel! Angel!"

Fred had that feeling again; the feeling that this wasn't real. This had happened, she felt that this was right, but at the same time, she felt it wasn't real.

"I must remember. I must fight," Fred whispered as she dipped her left hand into the blood. Slowly she raised her hand high above her head. The creature immediately turned towards her and snarled. He wouldn't harm her, she knew it. He came towards her. Fred however found her attention drawn to the two men.

Charles. Wesley. Those names felt somehow familiar. She dropped the bag of blood on the ground. The creature leapt upon it and began lapping up the liquid.

Fred remembered. Something was happening to her, her memories. She knew that it was Wesley who had told her what was happening to her.

She looked back to the creature and found that it had vanished. Several trees were now exhibiting patches of flickering dark blue. She knew what that meant; this memory was being consumed.

Before she could focus Charles vanished too. "No," Fred whispered. She tried to bring him back, tried to force him back into this memory. But it didn't work.

"Wesley, I... Gunn," Fred shook her head. _Charles. I must remember I must fight. Charles. Remember Charles._

Then her thoughts shifted to Wesley. No, she wouldn't forget him. She refused. Fred dashed over to him and took hold of his hands.

"Wesley, I won't forget you I won't forget you like I forgot..." Fred searched, but no name came. She knew that someone else had been here just moments ago, someone that was now lost to her. "No. No, no, no," Fred cried.

She couldn't quite put her finger on why, but she knew that Wesley was very important to her. Fred knew that she cared about him deeply. "Oh Wesley, no. I won't forget you. I won't."

"I know, I know." Wes wrapped his arms around her and spoke comfortingly into her left ear. "I know you won't forget me."

"I promise," she said. Fred knew that he was out there, that outside this memory of hers he was fighting for her, that he was going to save her from this hell that she was going through. She found herself wondering what things about him she could no longer remember. She had no idea if they were happy, or even if they were together. She had no idea what he looked like when he smiled, she had no idea if he had ever said sweet things to her. Fred hoped that he had, and hoped that she had brought him some happiness.

"I know. I'm going to stay with you, I'm never going to let you go," Wesley whispered and held her tight. Fred looked over his shoulder at the invading blue haze and knew that there wasn't much time. The force that was consuming her memories was going to try to take him away from her. She wouldn't let it. Fred refused to let it.

"I must remember. I must fight. I must always remember you," Fred told him, a tear slipping down her cheek. "You can't take him from me, I won't let you." She hissed at the oncoming blue.

"I'll never leave you," Wesley assured her.

"I'll never forget you," Fred replied, focusing her mind on him, focusing on keeping him.

--------------------------

Angel climbed into the passenger side of the black van, their transport back to the Wolfram and Hart building. "Let's go," he said to Head of Security, Jack Gibson, who had come to collect them himself.

"Yes sir," Gibson nodded. He started the journey. Gibson could have had a driver, or any of the security personnel do this job but he had decided that he wanted to do it himself. He felt that it was a good opportunity to be involved in the bigger picture. Since Angel was the boss it was of benefit for him to be where he was, both in career terms and, more importantly, it would help him do his job better. The better he knew Angel the better he would be able to respond to the boss's orders. Gibson had also wanted to get away from the office for a while. The atmosphere there was tense since everyone was working hard on the Burkle case. In truth however, Gibson felt that there was little anyone could really do. This man, Evans, was one of the two sources of hope. The other was the Gunman. Finding him would provide a truly solid lead. But that search was proving to be near impossible, with no trace of him being found so far, other than when he chose to make his presence known.

In the back of the van the again unconscious Evans was laid out flat on the floor. Using the contents of a first-aid kit a field dressing had been applied to his gunshot wounds. Gunn, who had the retrieved bullet in his pocket, was sitting beside Evans, ready in case he came around and said anything.

Gibson slowed to a stop at a red light.

Evans groaned and began to stir. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned again.

The light turned green, Gibson resumed the journey.

"Angel, he's waking up," Gunn yelled to the front. Angel unclipped his safety belt and turned in his seat, eager to hear anything said by the accountant.

Ritchie Evans was in pain, his shoulder in particular felt like a red hot spike had been driven through it. He looked up and saw Gunn looking down at him. "This really hurts," he grimaced, his voice tinged with a certain kind of surprise. In his mind's eye an image of Miss Burkle flashed: she was lying on the blood splattered ground. "She saved me. She died to save me."

"She's not dead," Angel said.

"Not dead…" Evans whispered, he had been so sure. She had been shot in the head.

"Why is someone so desperate to put a bullet in your skull?" Gunn demanded.

"I… have no idea… wish I did."

"There must be something. This guy has gone to a lot of trouble." Angel refused to accept that Evans didn't know anything. He had to know, he had to provide them with a lead.

Evans searched his memory. He'd been trying to come up with some reason for the attack ever since that horrible moment in front of the office but he really had absolutely no clue why the mysterious leather-clad motorcyclist was after him. "I really don't know." Evans shook his head.

Angel was about to ask the accountant if he could think of any special knowledge that he possessed that someone else would be interested in, when a shout from Gibson captured his attention.

"Angel!"

The van was crossing an intersection. From the right a motorcycle darted out and took up position alongside.

Angel turned and looked out of the passenger window. It was the Gunman. The Gunman glanced at Angel and gave him a little wave before accelerating.

The motorcycle pulled out in front of the van and started rapidly gathering speed. Gibson pressed his foot down on the accelerator to keep up.

"It's him, isn't it?" Evans said, looking up at Gunn, his voice shaking with pain and with fear.

"It's him," Gunn confirmed.

"He's going to kill me, and I have no idea why."

"He's not going to kill you. The three of us can take him," Gunn said with a reassuring confidence. Evans nodded, but he wasn't entirely convinced.

"Weapon," Angel said.

"Glove box," Gibson replied, not taking his eyes off the target for a moment.

Suddenly the motorcycle took a sharp right turn. Gibson reacted fast, throwing the van into the turn. The van lifted up on two wheels. For a heart-stopping second Gibson was convinced that the vehicle was going to topple onto its side. To the immense relief of all inside the van thumped back down on all four tires. Gibson wrestled with the wheel to straighten the van as it bumped up onto the sidewalk. Gibson regained control and jerked the van back onto the road. The Gunman had gained quite a bit of ground. Gibson put the pedal to the metal.

Angel had the distinct impression something wasn't quiet right. What had the Gunman hoped to achieve by reappearing now? The only answer that made any sense was that he was luring them into a trap. As he reached for the glove box Angel considered calling a halt to the chase. But now was a good chance to turn the tables, if they could take down the Gunman quickly before he could spring whatever trap he had in mind then.

Suddenly, the red glare of the motorcycle's brake light came to life. The Gunman still had a substantial lead.

For a moment Angel wondered what was happening, if perhaps it was too late to avoid the trap. Then his eyes caught sight of a small black object on the road, and he knew that it was too late. There was no time to issue a warning.

The van passed over the object, almost running over it with the front-left wheel.

And then, when the van had almost made it safely over the object, it detonated.


	5. Act Four

**ACT FOUR**

Everything was a rainbow swirl. The noise of hurricane winds roared in her ears.

And then it was over.

Fred flew out of the shimmering light and landed hard on the ground. After a moment to gather her thoughts and catch her breath Fred rolled over onto her back. It was night. Fred frowned. _That don't make no sense._ How could she be seeing the night sky when she was inside the… Fred looked round. She wasn't in the library anymore.

She stared up at the sky, trying to figure out what had just happened to her. "That can't be right," she whispered. Fred shifted her gaze across the sky. Still, she couldn't find a single constellation she recognized. That meant that not only was she outside the library, but she was a long way away from California or Texas. It made no sense at all.

Fred decided that she had to keep calm; she had to think about all of this logically. There was a perfectly rational and sensible explanation; she just had to figure it out. Fred took deep breaths and cleared her thoughts. First thing to be done was to find out where she was, after that she could try to discover how she had ended up in this far away place.

Fred sat up. She seemed to be in the middle of a grassy field. To the left, a short distance away there was some kind of farmhouse type building. She looked around. There wasn't any other sign of civilization.

Carefully Fred got up to her feet. If someone was home they would be able to tell her where she was, maybe they'd have a phone that she could use to call Professor Seidel.

Fred started towards the farmhouse. She was sure now, confident of her plan of action. She saw movement in the shadows ahead, someone was moving around near the farmhouse. "Hello!" Fred called out to the figure.

"Who's there?" Came a gruff voice.

Fred jogged in the figure's direction, overjoyed to see someone. The answers she was so desperately seeking were now just moments away.

"Cow! What are you doing out?!" The voice sounded very angry indeed. Fred froze. She had no idea what was going on. Fred looked around, and she couldn't see any cows. "Do not move cow!" Fred looked at the figure who was now striding towards her. To her horror she realized that the figure coming towards her was not human. He had green skin and red horns, and a terrible look of vicious hatred in his red eyes.

Fred couldn't move. She tried to scream for help but no sound came. She stared. She couldn't believe it. The other stuff; the library being gone, the strange stars; they were nothing compared to this. No. This had to be in her head. It couldn't be real.

"Who owns you cow?" the angry creature spat, increasing the pace of his march towards her.

Finally Fred moved. Without thinking she spun and started running. She had a terrible feeling that she was now running for her life.

"Come back here cow! Come back here this instant!!"

Fred was spurned on by the command. She glanced back, the demon (it was the best word she could think of to describe the thing) was hot on her heals. He seemed to be pointing some kind of device at her. Fred hoped that it wasn't a weapon of some sort. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her.

She searched the horizon ahead, looking for any place that might provide her a refuge, somewhere to hide. Unfortunately there was nothing but wide open fields in sight. All she could do was run, and hope that she could outrun her pursuer.

"Come back cow!!"

Fred glanced back again; the demon was gaining on her. Fred's foot caught on a rock and she fell with a panicked cry. She looked back and saw that the creature was grinning and was closing in fast. Fred scrambled up to her feet and again froze in fearful surprise. This whole thing had taken another wildly bizarre turn.

Chasing behind the demon was a huge, rolling, lightning-filled dark-blue cloud.

"I have you now cow!" Fred paid no attention to the demon. The oncoming storm had her full consideration and filled her with a deep, utterly chilling terror.

--------------------------

The device exploded just beside the back left of the van.

The back-left tire lifted off the ground as the underside of the van was punched up by the force of the explosion. The momentum of the van's high speed kept it moving forward at a rapid pace as the back end lifted. The van tilted right and the nose pitched down.

Angel was thrown forward. He realized that he had rather unfortunately taken his safety belt off when Evans had come round. Now he was going to pay a harsh price for that particular mistake. As the windshield rushed towards him Angel brought his arms up.

The van slammed down on its side. At the same time Angel burst out through the windshield. The van slid along, metal scraping with the asphalt surface; Angel bouncing alongahead of it.

At last all became still. Angel came to rest a good twenty meters from the van. He wasn't moving.

The Gunman nodded in satisfaction. He got off his motorcycle and started to close in on the wreckage.

--------------------------

"You wanted to see me Professor Seidel."

"Ah Winifred, yes, yes come in, take a seat." The professor looked up from what he was reading.

Fred closed the door behind her and sat down across from Seidel.

"Miss Burkle," Seidel began and then paused, looking down at the papers on his desk.

"I'm not in any kind of trouble am I?" Fred asked nervously.

"No, not at all. Quite the opposite in fact. The paper you just turned in on string theory is... Well it's excellent. Quite possibly the best student-written paper I've ever read."

"Really?" Fred beamed and brushed back a stray strand of her hair. "I wasn't sure how well I'd..."

"Believe me, you did a fantastic job. I just wish there was some grade above an A-plus that I could give you." He paused for a moment and seemed to be deep in contemplation. "Yes, it really is very good..."

--------------------------

The Gunman looked down. He was standing above Angel. The vampire was unconscious, or at least he appeared to be. The Gunman kicked him hard in the abdomen. Angel limply rolled over onto his back. The Gunman nodded, satisfied that the vampire wasn't faking it.

He continued his march towards the van. The end of the mission was in sight, at last. He went round to the back of the van and pulled open the lower door (the right door when the van was in its normal orientation).

Gunn looked up at the sound of the door being opened. "Angel?"

"No," the Gunman replied.

Gunn immediately leapt up, lunging at the Gunman. Despite being hazy from the sudden crash, he knew that he had to fight off the enemy and protect Evans.

The Gunman was taken by surprise as Gunn knocked him the ground. Gunn quickly punched with his right fist, getting in as many blows as he could. The Gunman pushed Gunn off with both hands. Both were quick to get to their feet. Gunn had watched Angel fighting the Gunman, so, he knew that he had to be fast in taking him down or he wouldn't have a chance. He stepped forward and kicked out with his right foot, hitting the Gunman on the side of the knee. At the same time the Gunman tried to punch him, but because of Gunn's strike he managed only a glancing blow.

Gunn didn't allow himself to be put off and followed up with a left punch to the enemy's ribs. He felt a swell of triumph as he swung his right hand, impacting the Gunman's chest with the heel of his palm. The Gunman stumbled back.

The Gunman took several hurried steps away from Gunn; he was disgusted by his poor performance.

Gunn refused to let the enemy get away, he kept close and ducked below a wild punch by the Gunman as he delivered another punch, this time going for the stomach.

The Gunman saw his chance. Fighting through the pain Gunn was inflicting on him he threw himself forward. After a brief struggle, the Gunman shoved Gunn away and took the chance to create some distance.

Gunn again was determined not to let up on his opponent. He stepped forward and came face to face with the barrel of the silver gun.

--------------------------

Winifred Burkle's only movement was the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Looking at her now a casual observer would say she was at rest. They might think she was a quiet girl with a quiet life. They would have no idea of the hardships she'd faced. Monsters and demons. She had seen horrors most people couldn't imagine.

That's the thing about casual observers. They would never know the truth of Winifred Burkle. They wouldn't see her strength, her courage and her unflappable determination.

If the observer however, was someone who could read the brain scanner monitor they would see that the rate of absorption was getting faster.

Piece by piece the bullet was taking her.

--------------------------

Gunn froze.

There weren't many sights that terrified him as much as the sight that he now faced.

All the Gunman had to do was tighten his trigger finger and Gunn's brains would be sprayed into the night air.

He didn't move a muscle. He tried his very best to keep his breaths calm and controlled. His heart was racing. Gunn faced up to the reality that it was very unlikely that he would survive the next few seconds. He was going to be shot in the head. Just like Fred had been.

Despite the helmet Gunn could tell that the Gunman was looking him in the eyes. Gunn stared back, unwavering in his resolve to show no fear.

"What is your name?" The Gunman asked.

"Gunn. Charles Gunn."

"You're a lucky man Charles Gunn. I have only one bullet left, and it is not meant for you." The Gunman struck quickly, hitting Gunn hard on the forehead with the muzzle of the gun. As Gunn staggered back, the Gunman swung the weapon, smacking the butt on the side of the man's head.

Gunn went down. He tried to fight it but the light of consciousness was smothered by a blanket of darkness.

The Gunman waited a moment, and prodded the human with his foot. He nodded and turned back towards the van.

_I'm dead..._

…was his first thought. But the pounding of his heart in his chest and the loud whooshing of his breaths assured him that he was still very much alive. He'd survived the crash. Ritchie Evans didn't know if this fact was a good thing or a bad thing.

He opened his eyes and started to sit up. The movement caused a flash of searing pain to erupt from his wounded shoulder. His cry came out as a high pitched squeeek. He flopped back down.

He'd imagined that accountancy would be a quiet, unexciting career. Up until tonight he'd been right, apart from the whole, finding-out-demons-are-real-and-working-with-them, thing.

He had to get out. The Gunman hadn't taken out the van for nothing; he would be coming for him. Ritchie had to be quick.

He sat up, gritting his teeth against the flare of agony. He looked around. There was no sign of Gunn, and the lower of the rear doors was open. He didn't know if he should take Gunn's absence as a good sign or a bad sign. The way his luck was going tonight, it was probably bad.

As he started to turn himself and begin the crawl to the opened door, he saw the Gunman. Ritchie wasn't at all surprised. From the moment he had seen the Gunman approaching him outside the Wolfram and Hart building he had known that the figure in black was going to kill him. For a few seconds neither Ritchie nor the Gunman moved. They stared at each other: The hunter gazing at his prey.

Ritchie didn't want to die. The fact that his life was rapidly approaching its end highlighted that fact. Miss Burkle had saved him. He couldn't just let her sacrifice mean nothing. He had to find a way to survive. He had to cheat death one more time.

"Come here now and I'll make it quick."

Ritchie didn't respond to the Gunman's offer, or more accurately the Gunman's threat to make it slow and pain full if he resisted. The odds were impossible. He had no weapons. He had no fighting skills. The Gunman was blocking the best avenue of escape.

"Come," the Gunman, the reaper, said. "I will not ask again."

Ritchie was in pain and was in a state of terror but he was also determined to get out. To survive.

--------------------------

Memory after memory was consumed.

Fred swallowed the last of the taco she'd gotten from a stand not too far away from the UCLA campus. She was sitting on a bench, her notebook open in front of her. Fred had only been in L.A. a few weeks. She was determined to prove herself. She continued to read her notes from the morning lecture. She'd fully understood all the lectures so far; in fact she'd learned most of their content on her own time a year ago - in some cases several years ago - but it did no harm to go over it again.

Fred knew she had been right to come here. It felt like exactly where she should be.

"Excuse me, would you mind if I sat down?"

Fred looked up. She was sure she had never seen the man before but there was something oddly familiar about him.

"No, I don't mind at all." Fred smiled and looked back down at her notes.

The man sat. He looked about four, maybe five years older than her. He had a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands.

"UCLA?" He asked.

"Yeah," Fred nodded.

"I just got out of there." He sipped from his coffee.

"Oh, what did you study?"

"Accountancy. Sounds boring I know, but I've a bit of a knack for numbers. Just joined a small firm actually." The man seemed pleased, proud of his first step on the career ladder. "How about you?"

"Physics. Got a knack for numbers too." Fred couldn't get rid of the strange feeling that he was familiar, despite being certain that she hadn't met him before now. "Fred." She offered her hand.

"Ritchie," he replied and shook her hand

They chatted for a few minutes. All the while Fred couldn't shake the sense that she had encountered him before, in some important way too.

"Anyhow, I'd better get back to the office, I just stopped by for a quick coffee on the way back." Ritchie stood. "Nice meeting you Fred."

"You too."

He turned and walked straight into a dark blue cloud of energy that had suddenly appeared all around. Fred leapt to her feet, the notebook went flying.

And then the memory was gone, like so many before it.

--------------------------

There was only one chance. Ritchie turned away from the back of the van and threw himself towards the front. If he could get to Angel and the driver he might be able to wake them up to help him. Or perhaps they would have a weapon he could use. The front also represented his only available escape route. Ritchie made an effort to ignore the agony. If he didn't make it, he would be dead. His life depended on this final hope.

He grabbed the lower seat with his left hand and dragged himself between the seats. Angel was gone, the big gap in the windshield gave him a good idea where. Ritchie looked up at the driver suspended above him. The driver's eyes were closed and he had a nasty looking gash on his forehead. Ritchie knew he had not a moment to waste; he didn't have the time to wake the driver. He didn't see any weapons and there wasn't time for a proper search. The only option left was escape. He clambered towards the hole in the windshield. With every second that ticked by he expected to feel the Gunman's hand grab one of his legs and drag him back. Ritchie scrambled over Angel's seat. His gunshot wound throbbed. It felt hot and wet. He felt light-headed and he was aching all over. Ritchie forced himself to push on. It seemed to him that he was moving too slowly. Surely the Gunman should be on him by now.

Every movement, every moment, was a monumental effort.

He emerged from the van, putting as much of his weight as he could on his left side. Now he was out he had to get away as quickly as possible. Find help. Find somewhere to hide. Ritchie used his left arm to get himself up to his feet. He was exhausted. Sweating. Bleeding. Drained. Just standing was near-impossible. Attempting to run was a dreadful prospect. But the alternative was far worse.

The Gunman was standing beside the underside of the van. He calmly watched as his target staggered down the road, heading in the direction of his motorcycle. He gave the man a few seconds. The Gunman admired the man's determination to survive, to keep pushing, even though there really was no hope that he would escape.

Then he drew his gun and moved in to finish the task.

--------------------------

With every second that passed more and more of Fred's memories were absorbed by the bullet. Sometimes she tried to hold on to them, when she realized anew what was happening to her. On the whole most of them were taken without her realizing. Each time that she did realize what was happening to her she experienced fresh terror, both at what was happening to her and the fact that she had no idea what experiences and friends had already been taken away.

--------------------------

Wesley was back at his desk, reading as fast as he could, absorbing as much information as he could.

So far, he hadn't found anything of any real use.

--------------------------

Jack Gibson groaned.

Gravity was pulling him to the right, telling him that way was down. He could feel the safety belt holding him in his seat. He opened his eyes slowly. His head hurt. He had banged his head on the steering wheel. He touched his forehead with his right hand. His fingers found the warm sticky wetness of blood; pain spiked sharply. His body ached, particularly where the safety belt crossed his chest. His military training kicked in. Gibson ran an assessment of his injuries All of his limbs seemed to be functioning fine. He was fairly sure that, other than the head injury, he had suffered nothing more than a few bruises.

The Gunman was in no hurry. His target was still moving. He'd picked up the pace and was now going at a medium walking speed. The Gunman followed his steps surer and faster. He was catching up to his target, gun held at his side in his right hand.

Ritchie had one goal: keep moving! All of his being was fixed on that one task. He thought of nothing other than fighting beyond the agony from his shoulder and keeping himself moving forward. Step by step it got harder and harder. With each heartbeat more blood flowed from the entry and exit wounds. His eyes noticed that he was only a few steps away from Angel. Wolfram and Hart's CEO wasn't moving. Ritchie dismissed him, he was in no position to help. Ritchie was on his own. He had to do this by himself, for himself. Step by step.

Gibson twisted himself to face down; his legs didn't quite reach the passenger door. He released the safety belt and dropped, landing on both feet. Angel had clearly been thrown from the vehicle. He looked out of the spider-web cracked windshield and saw:

The Gunman reached his target; he punched hard, driving his empty left fist into the wound he had inflicted earlier.

Ritchie yelled and fell forward to his knees. He yelled again, the pain overwhelming him.

The Gunman grabbed Ritchie by the shoulders and pulled him, lowering him onto his back.

Ritchie's face was soaked with sweat and tears. He looked up at the Gunman. There was no way out now. He was out of options. Out of time. He watched the Gunman taking aim at his head.

Gibson moved quickly. He tore open the glove box and pulled out the 9mm pistol stored there.

"I'm… ready…" Ritchie Evans whimpered. In truth he wasn't ready at all. He wasn't ready to die without ever knowing why.

I don't wanna die.

The Gunman tightened his finger on the trigger.

--------------------------

Lorne rapped briskly on the motel room door. He wanted to get it done with as quickly as possible so that he could get back to trying to find a way to help Fred. When no answer came he knocked again. The motel was quite a nice place; clean, well lit. Lorne was disguising his demonic appearance with a trench coat, hat and shades. He looked around. There was no sign of anyone other than the Wolfram and Hart driver who had brought him here, who was waiting for him in the car over in the motel's lot.

Lorne took out the slip of paper on which he'd written the address where Michelle wanted him to meet her. _RICK'S TRAVEL STOP ROOM 17._ Lorne looked at the door. The number seventeen was engraved plainly on a brass plate above the peephole. It was definitely the right motel. And the right room.

He knocked on the door for a third time. "Michelle? It's me, Lorne." Still there was no reply from within the motel room. Lorne was worried. Michelle had sounded desperate to see him, she had really been afraid of something. Lorne knocked again, loudly. After a few seconds he tried the handle. The room was unlocked.

Lorne opened the door halfway. The room was dark. "Michelle?" He put his right foot into the room. "Michelle, you in here?"

There was a groan.

_Oh no_. Lorne feared the worst. He flicked the light switch as he entered the room. The lights came on and he wished he had left them off. He wished that Michelle hadn't got caught up in whatever situation had brought her here.

Michelle was bound tightly to a wooden chair, the rope was wrapped around her body, holding her tight against the chair's back. Her head hung forward. Her breathing was labored.

There was blood.

There was lots of blood. On her and on the floor.

Lorne could see where most of it had come from.

Michelle's hands and feet had been removed. They had been placed in a row on the bed. Lorne almost vomited.

Slowly Michelle raised her head and looked at him. Her face was bruised, swollen and bloody. "Law-r-n. That... you? Michelle gasped. She coughed, blood spurting from her mouth.

Lorne swallowed. "It's me," he confirmed as he moved slowly closer to her.

"Knew... you'd come." Talking was obviously very painful for her. Lorne could see now that she was also bleeding from at least a dozen cuts on her body.

"I'm calling nine-one-one, you're going to be okay sweetheart." Lorne pulled out his cellphone.

"No... time. Must... tell, you," Michelle grimaced. She coughed up more blood. And then she sang: the first couple of lines of _'Hey Jude'_. There was little in the way of a tune but it had the desired effect.

Lorne's empathic abilities picked up on her fear; not of death, not of what had been done to her, but of something she knew was going to happen: The knowledge that had led to this.

"Tell me," Lorne nodded and crouched, leaning in close to her.

"Must. Stop... him," Michelle strained. "He's going... to... the whole city. Everyone." Another dribble of blood flowed over her lips and down her chin. "Drawer. Gideon. Revelations. Tomorrow." Michelle looked him in the eyes. Her right eye was almost swollen shut. "He... he... he will tell you."

Then Michelle stopped breathing. Dead. Lorne hated what had been done to her, but he was glad her suffering was now over.

Lorne looked at her beaten face. He remembered the smiling girl who had came to him to try to make her life better. He wondered what path had brought her to this awful death. Lorne couldn't help comparing this tragedy to what had happened to Fred. A young woman was now dead, taken too soon, taken by evil. Lorne hoped that fate wouldn't be so cruel as to take Fred's life too.

He spent a few moments remembering Michelle. Her death would lead to more death; the death of the person or persons responsible for this. Lorne wondered if the relentless cycle of death he was caught up in would ever end.

Lorne shook his head. Sometimes he detested the life he'd found himself in.

He had to do something. Lorne stood and stepped away from Michelle's body. _Drawer. Gideon. Revelations. Tomorrow. He will tell you._

Drawer.

Lorne glanced over to the chest of drawers beside the bed.. He went over, doing his best to ignore the gruesome arrangement on the bed. On top of the set of drawers was a clock, a lamp and a business card with a black star and the letter letters CGM on it.

He checked the drawers starting at the bottom. In the top drawer he found a book: Holy Bible. There was a small label neatly stuck to the front: 'placed by the Gideons'. He picked it up, flicked through the bible and found what he was looking for. A piece of paper marked the start of the Book of Revelations. Lorne took the paper. On it was an address, of an apartment he guessed, and a time, 10:30pm. _Tomorrow_. _He will tell you._

A meeting tomorrow, with someone, a male someone, who would tell him the reason for Michelle's brutal death, and tell him of the event that she had been so desperately afraid of.

Lorne folded the piece of paper and slipped into his pocket. He put the bible back in the drawer and closed it.

--------------------------

Bang!

For the final time of the night a single shot rang out and a bullet flew from the barrel of the strange gun.

Gibson looked up; he was halfway out of the van. And he was too late.

Ritchie Evans was dead. The bullet had gone straight through his head.

The Gunman put the special gun away and pulled out a small, matchbox-like object. The Gunman slid it open, just like a matchbox. The inside of the box flashed white and the bullet flew up from the ground, back through Ritchie's head and into the box. The Gunman closed the box. His mission was complete. He turned and started walking towards his motorcycle.

Gibson scrambled to his feet and brought up the pistol. He aimed and pulled the trigger three times.

The Gunman staggered forward as the three bullets impacted his back. He managed to keep his balance. Dark green blood seeped from the holes. The Gunman turned to face his attacker.

Gibson was walking towards the Gunman, his pistol still aimed at him. The Gunman moved to reach for something. Gibson reacted without hesitation, pulling the trigger again and again and again. The three bullets hit the Gunman's chest. Still he stood, and again moved to take something from a pocket. Gibson fired again. And he kept firing.

Seven shots later, the Gunman collapsed.

Gibson continued his approach, his weapon held in both hands, ready to fire again if the enemy showed any sign of still being a threat. He stopped half a meter from the Gunman, and fired two more shots, one in each of the demon's kneecaps. The Gunman did not react. Satisfied that that danger was over Gibson lowered his weapon and looked back at the scene. Evans dead. Angel unmoving. The van on its side. Gibson held the gun at his hip in his right hand. With his left hand he took out his cell-phone and called for the medical team and a clean-up crew.


	6. Envoi

**ENVOI**

Wesley slammed shut yet another weighty volume. He sat still for a moment, desperately trying to come up with an angle, any angle, he hadn't explored yet.

"Wes," Gunn said, walking towards him. Wesley looked terrible; exhausted, drained of energy, drained of emotion. "Wes." This time Wesley was snapped out of his daze and looked up at the lawyer. Gunn had a nasty bruise at his right temple, where the Gunman had delivered the knockout blow. "It's time."

After a few moments, Wesley nodded.

--------------------------

Just over an hour had passed since Angel, the Gunman, Evans, Gibson and Gunn had arrived in the Wolfram and Hart infirmary. Now Wesley, Gunn, Lorne and Gibson were in Dr Hartley's office. Gibson had a bandage wrapped around his head.

"Angel is in a stable condition, I'm keeping him heavily sedated to give him time to heal."

"How bad?" Gunn asked.

"A nasty skull fracture, three ribs broken, four more cracked, broken cheek bone, a lot of minor cuts and bruises, his shoulder was dislocated but I've popped it back into place. He should recover fully but even with his vampire healing it'll take time."

"And the Gunman?" Gibson inquired.

"He is a Yaksix demon. After suffering serious injury his species goes into a hibernation-like state until healed. I've removed all the bullets and patched up the wounds."

"How long until we can interrogate him?" Wesley was staring off into space.

"I'm not sure. Data on Yaksix physiology is sketchy," Hartley replied. He was tired. This night had been one of the busiest he'd had so far as head of Wolfram and Hart medical and his work was far from done.

A beeper on his desk gave a short, high pitched tone. Everyone in the room knew what it was. Hartley had set it up to let them know when it was time to go and see Fred.

--------------------------

They were gathered beside Fred. Wesley was at her right side, Gunn and Lorne on her left. Hartley was standing by the brain scanner monitor.

"How long?" Wesley asked quietly.

"A few minutes at most." Dr Hartley was watching the monitor as her deterioration entered its final stage.

Wesley held her hand in both of his. "Fred."

--------------------------

Winifred Burkle was standing in a black abyss. She knew what had happened. She knew that her memories where all gone. She didn't know how. She didn't know why. She didn't know who she was. She didn't even know her name.

She did know that she was scared. Very scared.

"I must remember. I must fight." Fred said with determination. These were the only words she knew. "I must remember! I must fight!" She yelled into the unending dark.

Fred was crying now. Tears formed twin streams down her cheeks.

"I must remember! I must fight!" It hurt her throat to shout so loud.

Fred was utterly alone.

"I must remember! I must fight!"

From all around it came. The blackness changed. It slowly became dark blue. As it got closer Fred saw the rolling clouds and lightning flashes.

She shuddered with fear.

"I must remember! I must fight! I must remember! I must fight! I must remember! I must fight!" Fred screamed at the oncoming storm. She looked all around. It was everywhere. There was nowhere to hide. There was no escape.

Fred went silent and stood straight. She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. As the storm rushed towards her, she stared defiantly into it.

Until, finally, it closed over her.

--------------------------

"She's gone." Dr Hartley said solemnly.

"No." Wesley couldn't accept it, wouldn't accept it.

Dr Hartley continued to watch the monitor. There were no memories. No thoughts. There was no mind. The bullet had ceased its activity, its job complete.

A single tear left Wesley's right eye and trickled down his cheek. He squeezed her hand.

"Fred."

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! I'd greatly appriciate it if you leave a review, good or bad, constructive criticism is always welcome.

Part Two will be up some time in the new year :)

5x4: "Beautiful" : Picking up from "Bullet's" cliffhanger both Fred and Angel are in a dire situation. The team desperately search for a way to save Fred. Meanwhile Lorne uncovers a threat to the city.


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